The Car Ride from Hell
by strixx
Summary: The Joker needs to get to Georgia, where Crane has fled to in the middle of their business arrangement, and Bruce Wayne appears to be the perfect candidate to get him there. Unfortunately.
1. Kidnapping

**Here's the summary again for those of you on a mobile:  
_The Joker needs to get to Georgia, where Crane has fled to in the middle of their business arrangement, and Bruce Wayne appears to be the perfect candidate to get him there. Unfortunately._**

**And just so that we're all on the same page here, we're starting out somewhere in New York and progressing down the east coast to Georgia, which is estimated to be about 16 1/2 hours, but with the Joker being himself and with other complications, it'll probably end up stretching out far past that, :)**

* * *

**Chapter 1  
Kidnapping**

Being the guy that he is, Bruce had never imagined himself in such a situation. Nothing bad would ever happen to _Bruce Wayne the Idiot. _The thought was once considered preposterous. Inane. However, the universe just loves to prove him wrong in every way that it can.

He stares down the five barrels aimed straight at his head. All the men have some sort of clown mask on, each with its own unique expression.

They're standing in a sort of circle around him: one to the right, two behind him, one to the left and the last two dead-set in front of him.

They're barking commands at him - _stop standing and to get on your knees_ - easily ignored.

A window is shattered nearby and the sound of pots and pans clattering to the floor echo into the room shortly after. Bruce makes a move towards the kitchen, but the serious-looking one places a finger tight over the trigger. His jaw sets in annoyance as he settles back to his previous spot.

Another clown then enters from the kitchen, but this one's not wearing a mask. Rather, he has greasepaint smeared all over his face with red-covered scars that curl upward from the corners of his mouth.

There's silence.

Finally, he gestures for his men to back up. They comply, stepping backward all the way to the walls, but they still have the guns trained on their target.

Then the Joker gives Bruce a charming smile."Take a seat, let's chat." He offers with a hand, and Bruce realizes has no choice but to do as he says.

Bruce just sits and remains quiet. The Joker seats himself at the opposite end of the black leather couch. "Good, good." He nods. "Now I've got some bad news to break, rich boy," he says as he jabs a finger towards Bruce. Again, Bruce doesn't say a word. His face remains passive even with the worst-case scenarios running through his head. The Joker tongues at his molars at the lack of a reaction. "Wanna guess what it is?"

"It's not too high on my priorities list."

The Joker pauses for a moment, then shifts in the seat so that he's facing Bruce. He places elbows on his legs with hands splayed out in front of him to animate his point. "Look, me n' _Dr. _Jonathan Crane," he begins, sneering at the title, pausing to think. "Well, we made a deal a few months back... But I won't go into specifics about what for."

He waits for Bruce's approval, and once when he gets a nod of acknowledgment, proceeds. "I had to pay him in advance for his services. He wouldn't budge on that; the guy doesn't 'do' persuasion.

"But here's the catch – Jonathan skipped town two months ago. He's all the way in _Georgia_. I had no clue until today." He leans against the arm rest. Bruce rolls his eyes as if to criticize the clown's observational skills, the Joker ignores it. "... And that's where you come in." One of the masked men nudges his gun into Bruce's shoulder, prodding him up off the couch. "You see, I need money to get there, and you got _a lot_ of the stuff. It only makes sense," the Joker explains, and Bruce grits his teeth in aggravation.

Now the guns are pushing him out of the room, one now pressed against the back of his head and a rope being tied taught around his wrists.

They stop at the front door and look to Bruce expectantly. No one is moving, no one is speaking, they're all just standing. He realizes that they're waiting for something, and with a weary sigh, asks, "Did you think I keep my money under the mattress or something?"

The Joker blinks. "It would've helped."

Bruce glares at him. "Why would I want to _help_ you?" He asks, incredulous, making the clown chuckle in retaliation. He pulls out a gun and waves it around, stopping only to inspect the magazine.

With his lips curled into a sneer, he looks over to his captive. "Good question: Why _do _you want to help Gotham's Finest Criminal?" He grabs Bruce by his sleeve, eyebrows raised challengingly. Bruce struggles against the rope bounding his wrists, nails digging into palms.

Now the gun is nudged under his chin. He cringes away from it, but still keeps his eyes locked on the clown's cold gaze.

He lets out a defeated growl, his resolve having been melted to an indignant puddle. "How much do you need?" He asks, watching the Joker as he loosens his hold. The gun suddenly seems less threatening, it's as if the clown forgot it was there.

"Uh." He scrunches up an eye in thought. "About two thousand," he drawls out the number, as if bashful of admitting it.

"Because that's a lot." He rolls his eyes at the absurdity. "There's a card in my left pocket, it has about that much on it." At that the Joker's eyes lighten up. He releases his hold on Bruce's arm and shifts hands with the gun. He reaches down into his captive's pocket, digging and searching, until his hand comes across the plastic card.

He grabs it between two fingers and flicks it up in front of Bruce's face, who remains indifferent.

"We're gonna have to withdraw it," the Joker mumbles under his breath. "I don't know much about the palisades, so, you have to show me to the nearest ATM," he says as he leads Bruce out the front door, henchmen following suit with their guns trained on Bruce.

He's being pushed over to the right side of the building where two cars are parked on the concrete. One is a dirty white van, and the other is a gray sports-car.

Bruce gives the clown a skeptical eye. "I didn't know tinted windows became legal."

"They didn't."

Bruce is being led over to the small gray car, with a weapon still being held up to the back of his head.

He's shoved into the seat and before he knows it, more rope is being pulled around his body. They're securing him to the seat, he realizes, as if his hands being tied behind his back wasn't enough. The rope is tied around his torso about three times, five for his legs and on top of it all, he's buckled into the seat belt, too.

The door is slammed shut.

The Joker's muffled orders could still be heard as he tells his henchmen to get out. While his men pile into their white van, the Joker puts himself in the driver's seat with another slam of a door.

He doesn't bother to buckle up or to even look at the person tied to his passenger seat. He starts up the car and as he pulls out, begins to swerve, nearly missing the white statues on his way out. Bruce sighs with annoyance; he's in for one hell of a ride.


	2. The Injection

**Chapter 2  
The Injection**

"Turn left," Bruce directs and the car instantly swerves to the left. His body barely even moves, the ropes are tied too tightly around him for any slack. "Keep going..." his voice drones unconcernedly. The Joker nods and gives his passenger a sideways look. It's the first time he has paid any direct attention to him since they got into the car. "Turn right."

And the car jerks to the right.

The two find themselves a little ways out of the palisades in front of a local convenience store.

He parks on the side of the building, and after cutting off the engine, the Joker turns to Bruce. "Now, just in case you get any funny ideas about running off -"

"That's possible." He sneers toward the clown as he pushes against the restraints. The Joker ignores him with an offended smack of the lips. He reaches into his purple trench coat, fumbling around for a couple seconds then finally pulls out a syringe filled with a clear liquid. There is a tiny blue bead flashing brightly within it. "What - what is that?" Bruce stammers, confused, cringing away from the needle.

"It's a tracker," his captor answers passively, examining it in his hand. Bruce mentally curses himself to hell and back – he realizes that there is no way out. No way to escape, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The Joker has forced him into a corner, so to speak.

A gloved hand takes hold of his elbow while the other is resting in a comfortable position on his skin.

Bruce grits his teeth, of course he wouldn't do so much as sterilize the area beforehand. Hell, he didn't even know if the needle itself was sterile. If that tracker wouldn't lead to his demise then a disease most certainly will.

There's a sharp pinch and as the Joker injects the tracker, then it starts to feel more and more like he had just been stabbed with a knife. Bruce starts getting dizzy. The clown keeps the needle in his arm for a couple seconds longer, but that's just because he is distracted by a bruise located further up his captive's arm.

His perplexed expression deepens as he lifts Bruce's sleeve up further to reveal more bruises and scars.

Bruce pushes against the restraints again. "What are you looking at?" He snaps.

The Joker pauses for a moment in thought. His face turns sour. Tugging Bruce's sleeve down with a vengeance, he lets out a huff as he lifts himself up out of the car.

Once when the driver's door slams shut, Bruce lets out a deep breath of relief.

The gears in his head start turning. He whips his head around, examining the surroundings. To the left there's an ATM a couple yards away, which the Joker is preoccupying at the moment, and to the right he sees trees. The doors are unlocked. The ropes around his wrists are starting to become loose, but not enough for him to slip his hands out.

He cranes his neck to get a good look at his arm, the one where the Joker had injected the tracker, and the blue thing is still flashing as brightly as ever under his skin. He knew that the Joker was crazy, but damn _that_ was just unnecessary. He purses his lips and goes on scanning the area.

His thoughts begin to drift. The Joker said Georgia, right? And they're in New York. That's about seventeen or so hours worth of driving if the clown's persistent enough.

… When he hears the car doors lock, he groans. The Joker must have known that he would be strategizing_. _

Bruce turns his head to glare at the clown, to let him know just what he thinks of him, but by that point he was already heading towards the store's entrance without so much as a second glance back at his car.

Cocky son of a bitch.

He waits and waits for the clown to return. His foot is tapping against the floor. He's looking around, scanning the area, though he's not thinking of escape routes. Instead, his eyes glaze over.

Things seem so surreal. Just thirty minutes ago he was sitting at home enjoying the daily news, then those jokers kidnap and give him a passport right into this hell on wheels.

What would Alfred say, if he could see him one last time? The man somehow has the power to cast light onto any situation, no matter how dim it may be. He always figured that it was just the work of the British. Bruce begins daydreaming about the possible snarky remarks his butler would give about his current predicament.

He figures that it would probably something along the lines of, 'Well, Master Wayne, at least you can fill in that travel checklist I got you last year.'

Even the mere thought of the man could put a smile on his face.

In contrast, when the Joker returns, the very sight makes the corners of Bruce's mouth turn down into a frown.

He's holding a huge wad of money in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. "You smoke?" The clown asks as he starts the car, opening the package with one hand. He pulls out a cigarette and offers it in Bruce's direction.

Bruce closes his eyes and releases a breath, trying to maintain a stoic composure. "No."

At that, the clown raises his painted eyebrows. He pauses a moment before bringing the cigarette to his own mouth, tossing the package down onto the car floor. "Suit yourself." He tucks the money away into a pocket and exchanges it for a lighter. Soon enough, as they pull out of the parking lot and turn onto a busy highway, Bruce starts up a violent coughing fit.


	3. Hitch-hiker

**Chapter 3**  
**Hitch-hiker**

"Roll down a window or something!" He manages to get out in between coughs. Bruce kicks and shifts in discomfort under the restraints with a sneer stuck on his features. The smoke is too much; it's suffocating him. He briefly wonders if the clown can live without oxygen, because holy shit.

The Joker puffs out a breath he had been holding, gray smoke still escaping as he speaks, the tone calm and passive. "You're not exactly in a position to be making demands, Bruce." He taps the ashes away with both hands on the wheel.

"Fucking christ!"

"Lovely mental image." The Joker takes another drag of his cigarette and Bruce notices that he's about half-way through with it.

If it were physically possible, smoke would probably be coming out of his ears by now. Not like there needs to be any more smoke, though. "I'm serious," he says with enough conviction to make the clown smirk.

"But you're always serious." He blinks rapidly as he switches glances from the road to his captive, cigarette now hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"You're never serious."

"And I have the scars to prove it." From the corner of his eye Bruce can see the man shrug his shoulders. He wonders from time to time how he had really gotten those scars, the true story behind them, but ponders very shortly on the thought of asking. The end results are not worth it, just like the way this conversation is headed.

Exasperated, Bruce sighs. "Just roll down the window. Please."

"Now we resort to begging. And here I was, thinking you were above such a thi-" The car jerks to the side as the clown's attention is stolen elsewhere, namely, to the side of the road. "Hey look, a hitch-hiker." He points to a lone figure a little ways further up the road, near a sign stating that they're about ten miles from New Jersey.

He seems kind of giddy about the mere prospect of picking this guy up off the highway, and it makes Bruce's stomach churn. "You can't be serious." He refuses the urge to cough. He can do no more than sit back and watch helplessly as the Joker accelerates.

"I'm always serious." Bruce never had a greater urge than in this very instant to reach out and slam the Joker's head against a brick wall. Repeatedly.

The car stops short. If it weren't for the restraints Bruce would have probably crashed right through the windshield. With his head still swimming, he examines the guy: tattered dark blue shirt, sweatpants, messy hair, stubble and - unsurprisingly - the bloodshot eyes of a druggie. The Joker can't possibly think that this is still a good idea.

As soon as he rolls down the window, however, Bruce can't decide if he's thankful or spiteful. Sure, the smoke's being cleared out but now his captor gets a chance to socialize, which should really be the dictionary term for 'a bad idea'.

The clown waves the guy over, who is understandably cautious in approaching the car. "C'mere, man," he calls out, extending a purple-gloved hand to wave over the hitch-hiker. As soon as he's close enough, he asks, "What's your name?"

"Uh." The guy lets out a weird throaty noise, "Greg."

"Well, Greg, where you headed?" He casually rests an arm on the car door, watching as the hitch-hiker rubs at the back of his neck, eyes darting like a cornered animal. He catches a glimpse of Bruce tied in the passenger seat.

Now he's retreating a bit from the car, making hand-gestures with each step. "Nah, it's all right man, I can get there myself." He waves off the Joker's offer and begins walking ahead. Unfortunately the Joker isn't the type of guy to take 'no' for an answer.

Bruce shoots the clown a look, watching as he creeps the car forward and licks his lips. "Oh, I insist. Where are you headed, Greg?" The Joker's voice has taken on a deadly calm edge to it and Bruce knows that it means nothing good is about to come from this. As if to verify the statement, the clown pulls out a gun.

Fear registers instantly in the man's eyes. "Shit! Virginia!" Greg is visibly shaking along with his voice. "Virginia." He swallows hard. "I'm headed to Virginia."

Pleased, the Joker gives the man a winning smile. "Much better." He jabs a finger to his passenger, "Now I won't tie 'ya up like Rich Bitch over here, only if you take that gun out of your pocket and hand it over."

* * *

Bruce stares warily at Greg from the inside car mirror. The man is twitching, a hand balling up firmly at his side to somehow replace the gun, eyebrows knit together in worry. He had seated himself near the window on the driver's side.

The clown barks at him to put a seat belt on and smirks contently to himself when the man jumps like a cat near water, hurrying to comply with the order.

They had already passed the 'Welcome to New Jersey' sign when the Joker finally speaks up.

"So, Virginia? I got a story to tell about that place." Bruce shifts the wary gaze to his captor. "I met a guy a while ago, back in Gotham city. He said that he had family down there in Virginia and just came to the big city to make a couple extra bucks. He came to me for work and would send a certain percentage of the pay down to his family every month or so," he explains, sparing a quick look back to realize that Greg's already growing bored with the tale.

"To make a, uh, long story short, he screwed up. Before I could give him his proper punishment, he slipped his way back to Virginia and I never heard from him again. I did, however, manage to intercept one of the letters he sent down before he left and I got his address."

Bruce's stomach does flips at those last couple of words, he wouldn't be telling this story just for the fun of it.

Also, why did that story sound a bit similar to Jonathan Crane's situation? He figures that the clown's not telling the entire truth, if the truth at all, about this mystery man from Virginia.

The Joker catches Greg's anxious stare, seemingly trying to use telepathy to communicate his latest scheme.

Then Bruce cuts in, suddenly fired with anger and skepticism, "You talk like you're used to it."

He merely shrugs his shoulders. "I'm a man of many burnt bridges."


	4. Technical Difficulties

**Chapter 4  
Technical Difficulties  
**

Bruce just sits, eyes glazing over in boredom as he stares out the window.

The Joker and Greg, their little druggie friend, have been holding a conversation for far longer than Bruce cared to listen. They're ignoring him anyway, leaving him out of the conversation. The drone of their voices, cut off occasionally by a laugh, he finds rather easy to dismiss in favor of retreating to his own thoughts as trees and hills rapidly pass by.

So they had made it through New Jersey without much incident, seeing as the Joker was too preoccupied with his newest guest the whole time. For that, Bruce is grateful.

He certainly isn't all that grateful for the situation itself but Alfred _had_ always told him to enjoy the little things in life.

Sometime after they pass a sign that's welcoming them to Delaware, Bruce begins to grow uncomfortable. He's squirming but trying to remain still, trying to ignore the feeling in his lower regions and it's infuriating.

He would punch himself if his hands weren't bound; he has to use _the goddamn bathroom_.

Such an inappropriate time, too.

Mustering up all the courage and dignity that he could possibly gather, he grits his teeth, turning to the Joker. "Not to disrupt your interesting conversation or anything, but." He pauses, brows dipped down. "... t' use a restroom."

He shoots the car floor a glare when the painted man cut off in the middle of a sentence to stare. Giggles soon erupt from the Joker with Greg following shortly after. The latter ticks Bruce off a lot more than it should.

The clown tries to calm down his breathing, only to spiral into another fit of laughter, hands tightening around the steering wheel. "And I thought _I_ was the joker here." He wipes an imaginary tear from his eye, smearing black greasepaint all over a glove. He hardly seems to notice.

Bruce gives the clown a look. "I'm not joking," he says, incredulous. "There's no need for me to be tied here anyway. You injected that tracking devise, remember?"

From the corner of his eye, the billionaire catches Greg freeze in his seat. Good. He needed a scare, especially for laughing at him like it was any of his business.

"Did you just propose the idea of sitting in that seat like you're _not_ a hostage?" The Joker gives him a small smirk, diverting his eyes back onto the road.

Inhaling deeply, keeping a lid on his aggravation, he speaks up a little more sensibly, "Yes, yes I did." The car settles into silence. Greg continues to fidget uncomfortably in his seat and the Joker continues to stare out to the road. For a few seconds, Bruce thinks that the clown didn't hear him. "I said-"

"I heard you," he snaps before settling back into silence, passive.

Bruce purses his lips. "Well?"

"Shut up I'm listening to something," is his only response.

Bruce cocks his head to the side in confusion, then looks back to the ragged man in the back seat as if he has an answer to the Joker's strange behavior.

Gregory does no more than offer him a shrug of the shoulders. Bruce tries listening for it as well, but finds that he couldn't hear anything other than the sound of the engine.

Eventually, the clown growls in frustration as the car begins to stutter and a foul smell emanates from the outside. Kicking his legs with a grimace, he seethes, "The tire. Son of a..." Mumbling incoherent words, his grimace grows deeper. Slowing the car to a stop on the shoulder of the road, he gets out with a huff, kicking at the car with disgust. "Fuck. The tire blew out."

All Bruce could do is give the clown a winning smile as he mentally says his thanks to any possible deity that may or may not be listening.

He wasn't sure if it was good luck, Murphy's law or plain old karma that brought this upon them, but he could really care less.

This is lovely.

This is great.

This is the perfect opportunity to get some revenge on his captor.

Laughing, he wiggles under the restraints. "Looks like you have to let me out now," he says airily, relishing in the nasty look he receives from the Joker.

"Looks like you're not taking a piss until you two get your asses out here to lift the car," he retorts, and Bruce puffs out his chest with pride, barely even paying attention to the need to relieve himself.

"Exactly. You_ have_ to untie me, because you need my help." He doesn't know why, but the very thought amuses him to no end.

Maybe it's the fact that the Joker - the Joker, of all people - is being forced to do something that he didn't have any intentions of doing in the first place. The loss of control over the situation is _hysterical_.

After Greg steps out of the car, the Joker circles around to the passenger side, a sneer hard on his scarred lips. Glaring, he swings the door open and grudgingly begins to busy his hands with the knots, unbuckling the seat belt as well.

"Get the spare out of that side-compartment-thing," he calls out to Greg, pointing to a vague spot inside the car. Not bothering to check if his order was being followed through with - as he knew that it would - he continues to undo the ropes binding Bruce to his seat. "And stop looking so damn proud of yourself," he practically growls the words, tightening his hands on an arm.

Bruce stares up to him in mock surprise. "Who, me? Never."

He narrows his eyes when a gun is nudged under his ear in response. "Get up." He's angry, so very angry, he can tell by the tone.

The Joker must have realized just how much more even the power distribution has become, and Bruce figures that he really doesn't like it. Either that or he's just fed up with the smart ass remarks. Either way...

"It was only a joke, don't have to be so touchy." After that, Bruce and Greg find themselves being held at gunpoint as they lift the car, the former writhing with the need to pee.


	5. Power

**Chapter 5  
Power**

This is around the time Bruce has begun to realize that the Joker is desperately trying to claw his way back into power.

It had started with the lifting of the car, making them hold it for far longer than they needed to as the clown changed the tire. Then it escalated to escorting Bruce a little ways off of the highway, holding him at gunpoint and ordering for him to go to the bathroom right there and then.

Now, it's blown up into the Joker holding a gun to his captive's temple and forcing him to drive. He's being granted a sort of pseudo-power, essentially.

And it's really annoying Bruce.

Greg has been trying to hold conversation with the clown, much like how they were not thirty minutes ago, but all attempts have thus far been shrugged off with nothing more than a particularly dirty look.

It pleases the billionaire a little bit more than it should.

At least Bruce could find a small upside to the situation; Alfred would be proud for it. His lips twitch upward at the thought.

When the gun's barrel nudges against his temple again, though, it turns down into a scowl. He shifts his eyes to the side, catching the clown's cold gaze. "How long do I have to drive for?" He dares ask the question.

At this point he has gotten a decent grasp on where he stands with the Joker and just how much he could push at the boundaries before things get ugly. Even with a gun to his head. Even with how absolutely unpredictable he is.

The scarred man did no more than huff out a breath. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh now that's just petty."

The Joker closes his eyes. "Listen, I'm in a bit of a mood. I'm trying really hard to be good here, so don't push it, buddy."

"There's really no reason for me to be here anyway. You have the car, the money and a destination. Why do you need me?" The car falls silent again for a few minutes. Bruce grows wary and allows himself another quick glance over to the Joker, then turns his attention back to the expanse of Virginia highway road ahead of them.

He doesn't seem as if he's too on-edge over the comment, so he allows himself to relax as much as he could with a gun pressed to the side of his head.

The clown works a tongue along his scars and finally answers, "Entertainment."

"You're pissed off, though."

"I think we can work through our differences, Bruce, I really do."

In return Bruce gives him a strange look. He sighs and lets the car settle back into silence, hoping that it would stay that way. When they approach a gas station some few minutes later, the Joker cranes his neck to check the fuel gauge. He pouts his scarred lips and drawls a breath.

"Stop there." He motions to the station with a tilt of the head. It's a command, it only adds to the ever-present shifting of power between them. His next words are slow, careful, full of regard and meaningful pauses between each word as a mother would scold her children, "Now I'm going to remove the gun from your head. If either of you do _anything_ out of line, just remember that I _will_ have my hand on it," he says, the warning clear as day, keeping his eyes on Bruce's profile even as he addresses Greg as well.

Bruce lets out a breath that he wasn't aware he had been holding when the Joker relinquishes the gun from his temple. As promised, though, he tucks it away in a pocket and his hand stays there.

As he pulls into the gas station and stops at a pump, the Joker waves him out of the car with a free hand.

He rolls his eyes, unsurprised, because of course. "If you really want something done you should do it yourself," he grumbles as he gets out, trying to ignore the humidity surrounding him and the sun beating down on the back of his neck.

"Sorry, what was tha_t_?" The voice is dark and threatening and it really shouldn't be making him smile, but it most definitely is, with his face safely being turned to the gas pump.

"Nothing."

"That's what I thought."

* * *

Before he knows it, they're off on the road again. The Joker's arm is extended across the empty space between the driver and passenger seat, the gun having returned to his temple as the clown slouches back in the seat with his legs up and resting atop the dashboard.

From the corner of his eye, Bruce sees him pulls his eyebrows together for a second, then suddenly turn to his captive. "How long have we been in Virginia?"

"For about twenty miles. Why?"

He doesn't respond, just sits up a little straighter in the chair and reaches for the glove box, fiddling around with his one free hand as he pulls out a pen and a random sheet of printed paper.

The pen is all chewed up and bent out of shape, but the Joker hardly realizes it has he pulls off the cap with his teeth and begins scribbling out something.

The gun slides down to his jaw, forgotten, and Bruce clears his throat. "Uh, what're you doing?"

Then in one fluid motion the clown springs to his knees, pointing the gun at Greg in the back seat as he folds the paper in half with two fingers. Bruce can see Greg's eyes widen in the mirror. "Do you remember that story I told you about my guy? Here's the address, the name and the objective. Take your gun back," he says, making the long forgotten gun re-appear in the same hand as the folded paper.

The Joker practically shoves them into Greg's hands. "Now get goin'. Don't stop the car." The last bit is directed at Bruce, who can't help but shift uneasy in his seat.

Greg switches glances from the gun to the clown, and the pause is making Joker grow annoyed.

The gun being held up to him suddenly becomes more threatening. "I'll know if you follow through or not. Now get. Going."

Bruce can't bring himself to look when everything seems to fall into place for the poor guy.

There's a click of a seat belt being undone.

He hears the fumbling of a shaky hand as it gropes for the door handle.

Before he knows it there's a scream coupled with the car shaking violently, and when Bruce looks back up to the mirror, the backseat is once again empty.


	6. Without Direction

**Chapter 6  
Without Direction  
**

"And we couldn't have just stopped the car?" Bruce asks in outrage, breaking the few seconds of awkward silence that followed. He looks back at a staggering Gregory trying to hurry off of the road and seethes. Sure, he might not have particularly liked the guy, but that doesn't mean that he deserves to be thrown out of a moving vehicle.

Especially to the whim of a madman, no less.

His only response is a strangely cheerful, "Nope!" The Joker, smirking, throws the pen on the floor then rests the gun in a comfortable position atop his leg, still trained on Bruce.

When Bruce starts talking again, probably with the intention of scolding his captor, the Joker reaches out for the radio dial.

His protests are drowned out by static, then after some channel switching the clown settles on a station and leans back, looking for all the world like a cat that caught the canary. The steady rhythm of violin and country music comes from the speakers while Bruce gives a death glare.

The song is about half-way through but damn him if he doesn't know what it is: 'The Devil Went Down to Georgia', by the Charlie-fucking-Daniels band.

"Change the station," Bruce says in exasperation, eyes rolling skyward as if to request help from a higher power.

He could use some divine intervention right about now, honestly, if only to give him the strength to get through a couple more hours without attempting to bash the Joker's head into the dashboard.

"But this is one of my favorites."

"Really?" His skeptical question isn't met with an answer, only another wide smirk, which has the potential to mean any number of things.

* * *

Some time later, after a few more station changes and different songs being played, they find themselves on an unfamiliar stretch of road. With one hand on the steering wheel, Bruce uses the other to dig around for the printed sheet of directions that the Joker had brought along. After switching glances from the road to the paper a few times, he groans. "Goddammit."

Then the Joker rips it out of his hand and looks at it for himself, then pinches up one side of his face. "You got off on the wrong exit back there," he says.

"No kidding."

"You did this on purpose." Bruce isn't sure if he's imagining the slight whine to his voice or not.

Either way, Bruce scoffs. "Uh, no I didn't."

"Just pull over there so I don't pull the trigger."

"I thought I was your entertainment."

The Joker doesn't say anything to that; he just rolls his eyes dramatically, glowers down to the paper and adjusts his grip on the gun. As Bruce pulls over to the side of the road and parks the car, the only sound he can hear is the engine and the music coming from the speakers.

When he listens closer he realizes that the song is 'Backseat' by New Boyz and oh _god,_ that has to be turned off _right this second_.

For his own sanity, Bruce pretends that he doesn't see the look that the Joker gives him when he hurriedly reaches for the dial, cutting the song off right in the middle of a chorus.


End file.
